Memoirs from a Distant Cabin

I found this piece of writing in my archives from 2020

It was as if time itself had paused. I lay there in stillness, gazing blankly at the towering trees that surrounded me—twenty acres of gentle giants, standing guard over my solitude. I had taken a dear friend’s offer to retreat to his off-grid mountain cabin, where phone reception was scarce and silence reigned supreme. A week away from the endless hum of life felt long overdue.

My family was hesitant when I told them I’d be carrying in all my supplies—food, firewood, and most importantly, my cat. Summer was nearing its end, and I was ready to trade the lively chaos of a shared house for something simpler. Out there, I journaled, crafted, and wandered aimlessly through the forest, losing myself in its quiet rhythm. The cabin quickly became my sanctuary—a place to slow down, breathe deeply, and sink into my creativity.

I found joy in the simplicity of cooking with bare essentials. My favourite meal: stone-ground oatmeal banana pancakes. They tasted different when made with intention—when the oats were ground with a rock, when the air smelled of wood smoke and dew.

Just as I had begun to settle into the calm, my phone—long forgotten—sounded an unexpected ping. A message appeared from an old work friend: “Hey, I heard the news. Are you doing okay?”

I stared at the screen, puzzled. How on earth had I even gotten reception up here? And what news?

I replied: “What’s happened?”

The next words hit me like a punch to the chest. “Larissa has passed.”

My dear friend—someone I’d spent years working beside—a devoted mother of two, a loving wife, a CrossFit warrior, and my most trusted professional reference. Only months earlier, she had spoken to me with such optimism. She’d beaten cancer once, and though it had returned, she remained full of gratitude for the care she received. We had promised to see each other again when she felt stronger. I’d even pictured her visiting my place—her kids playing with the horses while I cooked her a three-course meal. There was no doubt in my mind that we’d have that reunion.

But now, that moment would never come.

Grief rose in me like a storm. My body trembled; tears poured freely until it felt as though I could have formed a moat around the cabin. There was no one to reach for, no comforting hand—only me, the forest, and the weight of loss.

That night, as if the sky itself mirrored my sorrow, a violent storm tore through the mountain. Branches fell like thunderbolts, crashing onto the thin roof of the cabin. The wind howled, the rain lashed, and fear seeped into my bones. The fragile timber structure groaned under nature’s fury. I clutched my cat close, praying silently to see the morning light.

When dawn finally broke, I opened my eyes to soft gold spilling through the curtainless window. The storm had passed. I was alive. Gratitude flooded me in quiet waves.

I made my way to the tiny kitchen to brew instant coffee from the emergency supplies. While the kettle boiled, I scrubbed dishes left untouched from before the storm, my mind replaying the moment I learned of Larissa’s passing. I caught myself thinking, I wonder how long it’ll take for her to visit me.

Just then, a loud thud struck the caravan window. My heart jumped. I stepped outside to find a small finch lying motionless on the ground.

I knelt beside it. “There you are,” I whispered.

I cupped the fragile creature in my hands, its body still warm but limp. I blew softly—a breath of hope—and waited. Then, as if summoned by that whisper of life, the tiny bird stirred. Dazed but determined, it fluttered free, soaring back into the forest canopy.

Birds are said to be messengers of the sky. In that moment, I knew. She was at peace.

It dawned on me then that this cabin—this entire experience—had held me exactly as I needed to be held. It taught me not only to grieve, but to live more deeply. To see life as precious, fleeting, and sacred.

This place, these walls, became more than shelter. They became a mirror of the soul—a reminder that our homes hold us. Every design choice, every texture, every sound or scent shapes how we feel and who we become.

The bond I have with that cabin is unbreakable. It’s a chapter etched in my heart forever—a reminder that beauty and loss often coexist, and that even in solitude, we are never truly alone.